


Calculated Distance

by UrbanHymnal



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, BDSM, Choking, Consent, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Orgasm Denial, PTSD, Perhaps not the healthiest way to cope with guilt and anger, Porn Without Plot but with a whole lot of feelings, Rough Sex, Violence, minor blood play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-12
Updated: 2017-04-12
Packaged: 2018-10-18 04:26:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10609251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UrbanHymnal/pseuds/UrbanHymnal
Summary: Sherlock is a force of destruction that carves a path through everything he touches, devastating and changing. John places himself gladly in his path again and again, teeth bared and eager to be torn apart.Days like these, John screams into the storm, bracing himself for the first blow.Days like these, when John loses himself, when he needs a fight, Sherlock obliges.----Written for the After Dark Reading event at 221bcon.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written for the After Dark Reading party, which challenged authors to read aloud some serious smut in front of an eager audience. Please note the tags on this one. While John and Sherlock are both consenting, this is not a gentle fic by any means and, in true form, John and Sherlock basically fail utterly to actually discuss their emotions.

John divides his life into segments, into periods of healing and destruction. Of before and after Sherlock, because Sherlock is both. He has left an undeniable mark on John, fractured him and mended him. Sherlock is a force of destruction that carves a path through everything he touches, devastating and changing. John places himself gladly in his path again and again, teeth bared and eager to be torn apart. There are days when he craves it so deep down in his bones, he aches.  A pressure builds in his chest, giving way to anger tinged with regret. Fists and moonlight chases aren’t enough. Grabbing Sherlock by the scruff of the neck and forcing him to his knees won’t even touch it on those deep dark days. His mind scrambles; anger and a deep terrified itch of anxiety mingle, threatening to drown him. He feels out of control and desperate. Trapped. Spinning uselessly.  Days like these, where he wants a fucking fight, he screams into the storm, bracing himself for the first blow.

John slams his way through the flat. Cabinets snap close as he fixes his tea in the morning. Mugs slap down too hard on tabletops. Thunder booms suddenly, followed by the sharp flash of lightning. So close he can’t calculate the distance between flash and bang. They blend between the two into one explosion of light and sound. His shoulder screams into the ensuing silence. He tries to ignore it.

The paper tears as he opens to read up on the game of football he missed last night. He breathes hard through his nose, resisting the urge to kick over a chair. He can’t control any of it: not the pain in his ruined shoulder, not the bloody storm, or the anger beating away in his skull. He paces the flat: bedroom, kitchen, washroom, sitting room, bedroom, sitting room, kitchen, washroom. Up and down. He tries to remember the breathing exercises his therapist taught him. ( _Gun drawn, mousy, nothing to look at, glasses-- no, not that one, the other one-- c’mon, Watson, stop jumping at ghosts-- never knew you to be a scaredy cat-- grab your kit and let’s move soldier._ ) He chokes on air and his own spit.

“John.” Sherlock sits casually in his chair, arms and legs loose. Sherlock says his name like a long Sunday morning, lazily spent in. Even his relaxation grates on John’s nerves. How dare he look so fucking calm. What right does he have after everything that has happened?

“Not right now, Sherlock.” John folds the laundry. It’s all socks and none of them seem to match.  His fingers twinge, spasming as the nerves in his shoulder pinch. His left hand shakes as he mates them regardless of color. Let Sherlock deal with that later. Let him fret over his goddamn sock index. John’s mind catches on the thought; he isn’t even sure if Sherlock has a sock index anymore. He drops a sock and it takes him several beats to bite back the inexplicable anger that builds.

Upstairs, Rosie begins to cry in her crib. He knows that she always does this when she first wakes from her nap, that this is nothing new, and it’s okay to let her cry for a bit in case she settles back down, but his brain still screams at his uselessness. John upends the basket of laundry. He can’t do anything right. The walls close in, testifying to his failures-- father, husband, soldier, doctor, friend, lover. Everything he touches crumbles. He raises a fist to punch it into the wall. A broken hand and a hole in the plaster would be preferable to the hurricane in his mind.

Sherlock doesn’t give him the chance to connect.

Sherlock grabs John’s wrist with his left hand and raises his right hand. Their eyes meet. Sherlock’s fingers dig into John’s wrist. He’ll let go if John tells him to. Instead, John lifts his chin, lips pressed together in a thin line, and glares at Sherlock. A dare. A _fuck you_ . A _please_.

Days like these, when John loses himself, when he needs a fight, Sherlock obliges. The first smack hits John high across his cheek, making his sinuses ring and his teeth ache. The second comes from the other side just moments later, leaving John unbalanced. John staggers, his mind teetering between _yes_ and rage. He puffs his chest and moves into Sherlock’s space, only to be hit again, this time hard enough to blur his vision. Sherlock hooks an ankle behind his and shoves John, quickly following him with another smack.

After that it is easy to keep John tipping one way then the other, until he is tipping back, back, back onto the bed. He gives John no chance to breathe, no chance to think. He yanks hard on John’s trousers, stripping them off his legs, manhandling him into the position he wants John on the bed as he does so. Next come his pants. The waistband elastic tears as Sherlock mercilessly pulls them off his body. When John sits up to protest the treatment of his clothes, Sherlock grabs him by the throat with one hand and squeezes. Not enough to hurt, but enough to silence him. Air is harder to come by, slipping in small whispers into his lungs. John’s cock twitches in his pants. Sherlock tightens his grip and pushes John back down onto the bed. His weight insures that what little air John could take in is cut off. He holds him there for a beat, fingers flexing on either side of John’s throat.

Slowly, inch by inch, John relaxes. His eyes slip shut as he tips his head back, relishing in the pressure building in his head. It fights against the storm in his chest. His mind, no longer spinning in outrage, becomes solely occupied with the need to breathe. When Sherlock releases his throat, he sucks in a breath.

Satisfied, Sherlock unbuttons John’s shirt, gladly sacrificing buttons in the need to get John undressed. The cold air of the bedroom cause John’s nipples to pebble and the hair on his arms to raise. He shivers.

When Sherlock pulls out several lengths of cord, John’s shivers give over into something else entirely. His body shudders in anticipation as Sherlock ties one wrist to the headboard and then the other. It’s tight, but John flexes his fingers. His shoulder protests the abuse, but then it always does. Sherlock digs a thumb into a spasming muscle and John groans. Sherlock shifts the pressure, working the angry muscles there until they stop their relentless jumping. It’s not what John wants, this unexpected tenderness, but Sherlock is always thorough. John buries his face in his other arm, willing the tears building in the corners of his eyes into submission.

Sherlock never lets him hide. He fists John’s hair, forcing him to look at him. John fights him. Pain shrieks at him from his scalp, but Sherlock tightens his grip and yanks harder. He forces John’s face up until he has nowhere to look but directly into Sherlock’s eyes. He slips a hand down between John’s legs and gives his cock several jerks. John gasps. It’s dry and burns, but between the pain building in his scalp and the intensity of Sherlock’s stare, John’s cock grows hard. Sherlock pauses and licks his hand before pulling on John’s cock again. His hand speeds up, tugging as if he can rip John’s orgasm out of him. Perhaps he can. God, does John want him to.

Sherlock’s hand stops and John gasps, gulping down air. His cock and testicles ache with the need to come, but without Sherlock’s help, he can’t. He won’t beg. Not yet.

Sherlock leaves him like that, arms tied to the headboard, cock red and hard. Through the door, John can hear Sherlock move about the flat. In short order, he can tell that Sherlock has retrieved Rosie from her crib. He can’t make out the words Sherlock is saying, but John can imagine. Sherlock’s never been one for overly flowery baby words, and Rosie seems to love him for it. John buries the spike of jealousy deep; he isn’t sure who he is truly jealous of.

The front door of their flat opens and shuts. Sherlock bounds down the stairs, Rosie in tow. He hears the delighted coo of Mrs. Hudson from downstairs inviting Sherlock in. He won’t be gone long, he never is when they do this. They promised they would never do this with Rosie in the flat. Not on days when even the air leaves John wanting to rage. Not when Sherlock needs to give him a firm hand.

The waiting, though, is its own sort of torture.  When Sherlock shuts the door to Mrs. Hudson’s flat, John groans in frustration, finally giving voice to the need to come. John splays his legs wide and ruts into the air. A part of him used to hate that he needed this, used to balk at the very idea that sometimes he needed an overly firm hand, to be used, to be fucked relentlessly until he is left gasping and shaking. Now though, he can only think of the next moment, the next slap of Sherlock’s hand or the rough pull of his hair.

Minutes later, when Sherlock returns, he finds John just like this: face pink and hips rocking up into the air. Sherlock studies him like that. He takes his time, like he does with all of his important research, dissecting, noting, and filing away exactly what he wants to do next. John cannot guess at what will come next, but his heart picks up in his chest at the sight of Sherlock rolling up the cuffs of his shirt. What comes next will hurt.

Sherlock runs his fingers along the inside of John’s thigh, tracing inconsequential patterns. It tickles, but John wills his legs to be still. Sherlock trails his fingers up, a gentle caress that hints at his next action. When Sherlock gets to John’s crotch, he gently tugs at John’s testicles. He explores the weight of them, playing with the feel of them heavy and warm in his hand, before he brushes the back of his hand up the length of John’s cock.  

John’s hips leave the bed; his heels dig into the mattress. Sherlock rewards him with a hard pinch on the inside of the thigh, gathering up a bit of fat there between his thumb and index finger. There is nothing teasing about this; no, this is meant to leave a mark.

“Fuck!” John pulls away from the pain, but Sherlock refuses to let go. It will leave a dark bruise, but it won’t be the only one. Bruises are the norm, painting his skin in purples and greens days after one of these sessions. He attempts to kick out at Sherlock, but Sherlock dances out of reach. Damn his impossibly long arms and legs. They both know how this works. John will lash out, but Sherlock will win every time.

“Stop moving.” Sherlock’s fingers relent and blood flows back into the abused bit of flesh on John’s thigh. The pain is sharp and grounding, a bolt of sharp electricity that travels right to John’s cock. He obviously doesn’t trust John to stay still; shortly thereafter he yanks John down toward the edge of the bed, straining John’s arms, and ties his ankles to the feet of the bed. Like this, John feels flayed open. The position leaves his arms just this shy of painful. Even when between bouts of striking John, Sherlock is always aware of the limits of John’s shoulder. Still before long, John’s arms will begin to ache.

Sherlock gives John just a moment to test the length of the bonds before fetching a riding crop. He tests the bend of it in his hand, inspecting every inch of it.

John licks his lips and resists the urge to tell Sherlock to hurry up. Pinching and a few smacks aren’t enough. John wants to hurt for days and to feel every last bit of anger bleed right out of him. He keeps his thoughts to himself. It will only make things take even longer and right now John wants the pain. Still, Sherlock doesn’t bring the crop down right away; he slaps his hand over the already forming bruise on John’s thigh. Another smacks lands just below it. Another above. The next blow hits John unexpectedly hard on his testicles and John’s vision darkens at the edges. He attempts to curl inward, but the ropes refuse to give. He breathes through the pain. When he unclenches, Sherlock raises a brow at him. John nods.

The riding crop snaps down across his thighs, adding a brighter red line to his already pink skin. The next hits him across the hips. Again and again, Sherlock brings down the crop, snapping it in quick succession only to tease it along John’s tingling skin the next second. His skin is on fire. Each strike burns hotter and hotter, until his skin feels numb with it. Sherlock rests for a moment, stretching his shoulders and running a cold hand along John’s too hot skin. In the quiet, John heart beats hard against his chest and his breath comes in desperate pants. His brain feels hollow, empty and light in away it rarely feels.

Once John’s pulse slows, Sherlock begins again. He picks a new patch of fresh, barely pink skin to hit. The change in pain level catches John off guard and he whistles through his teeth and stiffens his muscles. Sherlock hesitates. The crop waivers in his hand. Anger surges in his gut at the sight.

“Either keep going or untie me. If I wanted an easy fuck, I’d go find someone to pick up.” They both know he doesn’t mean it. John hasn’t attempted to pull since they started whatever this is, but it gets the reaction he wants anyway. After all these years, they each know what buttons to push and how to cut deep.

Sherlock sneers. “Ah yes, another boring teacher? Maybe a nurse?”

John flinches and in the second of hesitation, Sherlock brings the crop down again. He deserves everything Sherlock is willing to give him. Every strike, bruise, and painful jab. He surrenders to the onslaught. Each strike blurs into the next. He bites the inside of his cheek and rocks up into each strike. More. More. _More_. His mind chants with it.

John finally loses his fight to stay quiet when crop comes down hard enough to break the skin on his stomach, right above his cock. He shouts. His entire body sings with pain, a bright hallelujah, that leaves him drunk. Distantly, he knows his face is already marred with tear tracks, but this level of destruction Sherlock is marking him with promises at remaking him, too.

Sherlock pauses and rubs his thumb along the bit of blood left behind his last strike. His mouth follows, suckling at the flesh there. John shakes. He sits balanced on a blade between far too much and not enough. His cock twitches when Sherlock begins to alternate between licking and sucking at his skin. Sherlock’s face is pressed so close to his crotch now John can feel the damp heat of his breath. He attempts to lift his head, but only manages to see the blurry outline of Sherlock’s curls buried between his thighs before his head drops back down to the mattress.

He loses track of time, floating in that liminal space. He only comes back down when the weight of Sherlock shifts on the bed and he hears the squelch of lube across Sherlock’s fingers. He can’t lift his head, but he feels Sherlock untie his ankles and bend his knees towards his chest. The press of lubed fingers push into John’s arsehole. John’s breath catches as Sherlock works him open. He expects Sherlock’s cock to follow, but instead the brunt end of a dildo pushes in. It’s bigger than what he is used to and promises to leave him feeling it for days.

As Sherlock pushes it in, the width of it flares, stretching him even further. A ridge catches on his hole and he quickly realizes which toy it is. A massive and ridiculously colored thing, ribbed all the way down and impossibly wide with a large knot towards the base. It looks more like something out of a fantasy wet-dream than anything from reality. He had purchased as a joke, something to tease Sherlock with. There is no way it will fit. Sherlock seems undeterred as he continues to slowly push the dildo into him. Panic flutters up John’s throat. It mixes in his mouth with the sharp tang of want dancing along his tongue.

“I can’t--” John grits his teeth and rocks his head back and forth. They both know how to end this, but John swallows down the words. He can feel Sherlock studying him to see what John will do next. He needs Sherlock to make him do this, to have the choice taken from him, but John bites his tongue. He won’t ask for it. Sweat gathers along his hairline. His breath catches-- oh god, wide, so wide, and on and on. The shaking in his body builds, and he whines.

“You can.” Sherlock pushes John’s knees closer to his chest until his arse hangs in the air.

Like this, John feels powerless. He tests Sherlock, pushing with his legs. Sherlock puts his weight into it and holds his legs down. His arm is a bar behind John’s knees, keeping him bare and open to the world. What comes next is up to Sherlock and, in giving over fully, John’s anger fractures. Bit by bit, it disintegrates. Anger gives way to physical pain, something John knows how to endure far better than the emotional wreck his mind has been all morning. He focuses on the pain. It swallows him up. The muscles in his legs spasm and protest the position; his arms have gone numb; his arsehole is stretched and far too full. But god, his mind has finally stopped the repetitive loop of guilt and rage at least for this one blessed moment.

Sherlock pulls the dildo back until it catches on his rim and then pushes it back in. He adds more lube on the next try, filling the room with an obscene squelch. Sherlock fucks the dildo into him, picking up speed until he is pressing it into John’s sensitive arsehole hard and relentless. He only stops long enough to take John’s cock into his mouth, but quickly picks back up again.

The pain drops away under Sherlock’s ministrations, replaced with a growing high. John’s mind follows it; his body rocks with each thrust, and responding solely to Sherlock’s movements. He slides up the bed as Sherlock leans harder into him. He stares unseeing up at Sherlock’s face, unable to process past the way Sherlock drives him harder and harder towards a breaking point John both fears and craves.

Sherlock twists the girth of the dildo on the next slide in, driving into John’s prostate, as he gives John’s cock a hard pull. Sherlock holds him down as John bucks.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck. Just like that-- oh god, don’t stop.” John barely recognizes his own voice, slurred and begging. He only knows he will die if Sherlock doesn’t let him come right now.

Sherlock, the giant fucking prick that he is, pushes the dildo just past the flared knot and stops sucking his cock.

John growls and tugs at the bonds keeping his arms tied to the headboard. The muscles twitch and refuse to work right. It’s for the best because if he could get free, he might strangle Sherlock. Sherlock is unfazed by John’s death glare and climbs off the bed. The dildo shifts in John’s arse as his legs drop to the bed, and drags across his prostate again. John sees stars. Before he felt like he was floating above his body, but now he can feel every sharp sting, every bruise forming. The wide stretch the dildo refuses to give way. Each spark of pain seems fresh and new. It’s terrible. It’s wonderful. He wallows in it.

Sherlock stands over him and begins to disrobe. He takes his time, occasionally pausing in unbuttoning his shirt to pinch John’s nipple or fondle John’s testicles. When he spies Sherlock’s hard cock pressing against the line of his silk underwear, John feels a roar of satisfaction build in his chest. He swallows it. Sherlock notices it anyway. There is no denying that they both enjoy this, but Sherlock still likes to play at being unaffected. When Sherlock tugs off his pants, he wads them into a ball.

“Open.” He taps John’s mouth with a finger and then pushes the silk in when John complies. The silk slides across John tongue, bringing the musky taste of Sherlock with it. Already, the fabric is growing wet in his mouth and finds himself playing his tongue back and forth across it, before he bites down on it as Sherlock slicks up John’s cock. He moans into the silk.

Sherlock swings a leg over John and slowly works John’s cock into his arsehole. He rocks up and down, inch by inch, taking his time. When he is finally fully seated, he grabs a fistful of John’s hair and yanks his head up. “You come only after I have.” He gives John a hard smack for good measure and releases his grip on John’s hair.

And then he begins to fuck himself in earnest on John’s cock. He digs his fingers in John’s chest, bouncing as hard as he can. The sting of Sherlock’s nails on his chest work in counterpoint to the blinding urge to come. He rakes them down John’s chest, leaving irritated skin in their wake. Gentleness is for other people and right now Sherlock has no time for it.

He chases his own orgasm heedless of John, and John revels in it. Being reduced, being ignored and humiliated, leaves John breathless. He is a toy to be used, something to get Sherlock off and nothing more. He gladly serves at Sherlock’s pleasure and like this, Sherlock is gorgeous to witness. His skin turns pink and sweat collects at his temples. John, mesmerized, watches as a bead of sweat works its way down Sherlock’s cheek and travels down his throat. Sherlock moans and his hips stutter as he nears orgasm. His arse tightens around John’s cock.

John grits the fabric between his teeth, swallowing on a need to bellow. His entire being is focused down between his legs-- the unforgiving rubber of the dildo keeping him wide open, the burn of bruises and abused muscles, the nearly painful throb of his cock desperate for release.

John’s begging is swallowed up by silk, but he still tries. Sherlock leans forward, pulls the underwear from his mouth, and smashes their mouths together. It’s more a punch than a kiss. Teeth clack against each other. Sherlock bites John’s bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. He deepens their kiss to drown out John’s cries of pain and his begging for permission to come.

Finally-- Christ-- finally, Sherlock wraps a hand around his own cock. He pulls away from the kiss, leaving the taste of blood lingering on John’s tongue. The red head of his cock disappears into his fist and Sherlock once again begins to rut down onto John’s cock. Sherlock’s breath picks up, each breath punching out of him, as his hand picks up speed. His free hand latches on to John’s nipple and twists it hard, his whole body locking up as he orgasms. Come splatters across John’s stomach and Sherlock’s fingers turn into a vice on John’s already abused skin. Sherlock gasps and quakes above him, riding the wave of the high.

John can wait no longer. He does his best to fuck up into Sherlock’s arse and his own orgasm rumbles through him, a thunderous crash that takes him by surprise. His body twists with it, arse clenching around the unforgiving dildo, thighs tensing, hips rising off the bed, lifting Sherlock with him. It rips him apart, leaving him boneless and shaking. He can’t breath through it; every molecule of him is ripped apart in the tide of it. Just as he thinks it has ended, his arse spasms around the dildo, pressing it into his prostate again and leaving him caught in a seemingly endless orgasm. Sherlock continues to rock on him, milking John for every drop of come in his body. His own cock lays soft and spent between them, smearing in the come spreading on John’s stomach.

Sherlock stretches out across John. John’s cock slips free as Sherlock presses their mouths together once more. John can taste blood on their tongues, but the kiss is gentle. John lacks the energy to kiss properly, but Sherlock guides him through it. John’s eyes close and lets Sherlock take the lead. He can feel sleep tugging him down into something dark and dreamless.

He doesn’t feel Sherlock move off of him and only half acknowledges Sherlock untying him and rubbing feeling back into his biceps. He knows that he is crying now, the fight bleeding out of him under Sherlock’s steady hands. Sherlock shushes him when he groans at the emptiness he feels once Sherlock pulls the dildo free. He’ll feel this all later, the bruises and cuts under his clothes and the soreness in his arse, but for now, he rests. This part, the kindness that comes after each beating, is for Sherlock. John doesn’t need (deserve, his mind tries to whisper, but it is swept away with a flannel across his face) it. He lets Sherlock cover him with a blanket, lets himself be cared for.

Sherlock shushes him and tucks John close. He rests John’s ear just over his heart. “I’d give you this every day, if I thought you needed it.”

He knows everything Sherlock would give him, if he asked. But he can’t, not anymore; John has already asked for too much.

Sherlock runs in fingers through John’s sweat-crusted hair. “You are a good man.”

John isn’t, but this-- the moment after-- makes him feel like some day he might be. Some day, he might be able to balance out all the bad, all the fuck ups. The storm in his chest gives way to a brief calm and he can finally breathe.

 

 


End file.
